What She Knew

Be aware of your public status. Although this might not be the kind of fame you want, you may attain some sort of ‘celebrity’ standing because of your continuous involvement with the media… Therefore, for your child’s sake, conduct yourself as if all eyes were upon you… Don’t do things that might cast you in a negative light…

‘When Your Child Is Missing: A Family Survival Guide’, Missing Kids USA Parental Guide, US Department of Justice, OJJDP Report

WEB PAGE – www.twentyfour7news.co.uk/bristol – 6.18 AM BST 23 Oct 2012

Fears are building for the safety of Benedict Finch, eight years old, who went missing in Leigh Woods near Bristol on Sunday afternoon.

By Danny Deal

Detective Chief Inspector Corinne Fraser last night said that police are ‘deeply concerned’ for the safety of the missing boy. ‘You’ve seen the weather we’ve been having,’ she said. ‘Cold, rain, you don’t want a small child to be out in that.

‘It is possible that Benedict has been subject of a criminal act,’ she added, but stressed that all lines of inquiry remain open. ‘At present, nobody is detained, nobody is a suspect.’

Members of the public are being urged to phone in with any information that might relate to Benedict. ‘We would urge people to come forward if they think they might have any information that could help us find this little boy.’

DCI Fraser revealed that they had already received 130 calls to a hotline dedicated to the boy’s disappearance.

‘I would like to give our sincere thanks to the public for their support in the search for Ben,’ she said, and urged people to report to Abbots Leigh village hall where a volunteer centre has been set up to co-ordinate search efforts.

Anyone with information can call the missing hotline number 0300 300 3331.

5 people are discussing this article

Donald McKeogh

We should keep this little boy in our hearts. Newspapers have offered £25,000 reward. Good on them. Hope he’s home safe soon.

Jane Evans-Brown

Where’s his dad in all this?

Jamie Frick

Something strange about this. How does a kid get lost in the woods? Why wasn’t mum looking out for him?

Catherine Alexander

Seems odd. Perhaps the police are not telling everything.

Susan Franks

The police are only releasing what they need to. Let them get on with their jobs and pray for this little boy and his poor family… hope he is found safe and well…

RACHEL

In the car on the way to Kenneth Steele House, gobbets of sound blurted out of the police radio on the dashboard, and the stop and start motions of the commuter traffic made the ride uncomfortable and slow. Nicky had put on make-up and a perfume that was sickly. I wound down the window a little to dilute the smell, but the air I let in was dirty and damply cold.

Nicky and Laura had persuaded me to wear a skirt, boots and shirt, so that I would appear presentable. They hadn’t been able to do anything about my forehead. The gash was too angry and raw. I didn’t care what I looked like.

None of us had spoken much, just a few murmurs of advice from Laura about how to face a camera from her college media training, which I hadn’t been able to concentrate on, but had nodded just the same.

In the kitchen, just before we left, they’d left me alone momentarily, and I saw the notepad Nicky had been using the night before. It lay face down on the table. I flipped it over, knowing I shouldn’t, unable to stop myself.

‘Notes’ Nicky had underlined and then she’d jotted down some statistics: ‘532 missing kids UK 2011/12.’

I read on: ‘82% abductions are family kidnappings. Of non-family abductions, 38% kids taken by friend or long-term acquaintance; 5% by neighbour; 6% by persons of authority; 4% caretaker or babysitter; 37% by strangers; 8% slight acquaintances.’

There was more: ‘Crime is most often a result of interactions between motivated offenders, available targets and lack of vigilant guardianship to prevent crime.’

I couldn’t stop reading. I was transfixed by it, carried along by the dry academic tone, and the horror of the content. The next paragraph began: ‘First law enforcement response is CRITICAL.’

She’d underlined that, two lines drawn so hard that they’d gouged the page. What I started to read next was worse: ‘When abducted child is killed, killer-’

Before I got further Nicky came back into the room and snatched the notepad from me.

‘Don’t look at that!’ she said. ‘Not now.’ She ripped off the pages of notes and put them in her handbag. ‘You mustn’t look. We’re not there yet. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left it out.’

‘How the hell are you finding this stuff?’ I asked. ‘What is it? Where’s it from? Show me!’ I held my hand out for the notes, but she wasn’t having any of it.

‘Don’t concern yourself with that. Honestly, Rachel, don’t think about it. Let’s go. It’s time to go. Let me look at you one more time.’

She held me gently by the shoulders, looked me over, a frown fleetingly crossing her brow when she looked at my forehead, and all the while I searched her eyes for clues to what she’d read, to how and where she’d found the information so quickly and to the side of her personality which allowed her the detachment to look at the darkest side of this in a way that I simply couldn’t contemplate.

At the police station they showed me into the same room as the previous day. Somebody had arranged four Jammie Dodgers on a plate for us. The centres of the biscuits were crimson and resinous, like excretions from a wound. The room smelled of stewed tea.

I sat there with Nicky, Zhang and Clemo going over a statement that he wanted me to read out, an appeal to Ben’s abductor. I looked over the words with a sense of detachment and surrealism. They didn’t resemble my speech in any way. I felt deeply uneasy.

Clemo was like a coiled spring.

‘Are you going to be OK with this?’ he said.

‘I think so.’

‘It’s important that you’re calm, and clear, as much as possible. It’s absolutely paramount that we don’t alienate the abductor.’

I took shallow breaths, focused on the page in front of me. The words swam across it.

‘Are you sure you can do it?’ he asked again. His voice sounded pressured, desperate for a ‘yes’.

‘Do you want me to do it?’ Nicky asked. I looked at her, her face straining with the need to help.

What could I say? I was his mother.

‘No. I want to do it. I have to do it.’

‘Good girl.’ It was enough for Clemo. He was up out of his chair, checking his watch.

‘Will you be ready to go in fifteen?’ he said.

I nodded.

‘I’ll see you in there. I’ll be sitting right by you. Emma, bring them down in ten minutes. Cabot Room.’

In Zhang’s wake Nicky and I travelled carpeted corridors until we reached a set of double doors labelled CABOT ROOM. Inside, I was invited to take my place behind a narrow table that was set up at one end of the room. The line-up was Zhang, me, Clemo, DCI Fraser and John, who acknowledged me with a nod, his jaw set in an effort to control his emotions.

Nicky found a place at the side of the room. She had to stand because every chair was taken. The room was packed with journalists. TV cameras were set up at the back, photographers beside them. There were more lenses trained on me than I could count.

Those who were sitting had laptops, or tablets, or recording devices, which they were busy checking. Behind us the wall was emblazoned with a large Avon and Somerset police logo, and on each side of that two identical posters had been put up, showing Ben’s photo, and a phone number and email address for information.

On the table in front of us was a bank of microphones, wires snaking from the back of them. I poured myself an inch of water from a carafe and sipped it. My mouth was dry, my heart thumping. The noise in the room was oppressive. Motor drives and voices meshed together to make a messy ball of sound from which my name sometimes erupted.

Clemo called the room to order on a signal from DCI Fraser. I clutched my script, forced my eyes to run over the words. I hadn’t really come to terms with what they wanted me to say. The carefully modulated phrases that they’d written for me made me recoil.

Clemo started things off and he was concise and authoritative. He spoke briefly and then introduced me, telling the room that I was going to read out a statement. I put my script on the table and smoothed it out, cleared my throat.

‘Please,’ I said, but my voice died away. I started again: ‘Please can I appeal to anyone who knows anything about Ben’s disappearance to contact the police as DI Clemo has requested. Ben is only eight years old, he’s very young, and the best place for him to be is at home where he can be with his family and friends because we all love him very much and it is making us very anxious not knowing whether he is safe and well.’

I felt tears running down my face. I heard my voice get twisted up by my grief. I felt Zhang’s hand on my back, saw Clemo shift uneasily in his seat beside me. I took a deep shuddering breath and went on:

‘If you are the person who is with Ben then please make contact. You don’t need to ring the police directly, you can talk to a solicitor, or someone you trust, and they will help you get him home safely. This is an unusual situation for all of us…⁠’

I dried up again. I’d reached the bit of the speech I hated. Clemo’s words ran round in my head: ‘Remember we want to humanise the situation,’ he’d said, ‘that’s why we’re offering the abductor a chance for forgiveness, so that they aren’t afraid to get in contact.’

I tried to gather myself. Clemo whispered something in my ear, but I couldn’t hear what he said, because it was then that I heard John sob. He was hunched over the table, his head in his hands, his face red and distorted. He began to cry noisily, his shoulders heaving, his grief physical and terrible.

I gave up trying to read. I couldn’t do it any more. I couldn’t say the words on the script and, most powerfully of all, I couldn’t fight the idea that had crept into my head with a certainty and clarity that almost took my breath away.

I carefully folded up the script, placed it in front of me.

You see, the thought that I had was this: that Ben and his abductor were watching. They were watching John break down and watching me speak words that weren’t mine: submissive, tame words.

I was sure of it, and I couldn’t stand it any longer.

I stood up, and all the camera lenses in the room rose too, trained on my face. I moved my gaze along them and, in my mind, through each one I met the eye of Ben’s abductor.

‘Give him back,’ I said. ‘Give. Him. Back. Or I will hunt you down myself. I will find you, if it takes me my whole life. I will find you and I will make you pay.’

Then, as Clemo was saying ‘Ms Jenner!’ and standing beside me, not knowing how to stop me, I spoke to my son. I looked deep down those lenses, willing Ben to hear my words, and I said: ‘I love you, Ben. If you are watching, I love you and I’m going to find you. Love, I’m coming to get you. I promise.’

I smiled at him. I was entranced by the fact that I might have just managed the first communication with my son since he disappeared, imagining him hearing my words in a strange place somewhere and feeling less alone, less confused, perhaps even feeling hope.

The reporters began to call to me then, but I felt triumphant. If Ben was watching then I had just made contact with him. He hadn’t witnessed his parents simply looking broken, his mother speaking in words that weren’t hers. Instead I’d told him that I was going to find him. Now I felt euphoric, as if I’d done something that was really and truly right and honest, something pure, even, amidst the horror of it all, and in my naivety I felt sure that that rightness and honesty should have some power to lead us to Ben.

I glanced at DI Clemo, wanting a show of support from him, but he looked as though he’d just been slapped, hard, across his hollowed-out cheeks. The cameras were still all trained on me, and the journalists were scribbling in their pads or typing, with fingers flying. The flashguns fired like strobe lights. The noise levels were rising.

DI Clemo, on his feet beside me, begged for calm. He put his hand on my arm and guided me firmly back down into my seat. Patches of sweat had appeared under his armpits, staining his shirt.

‘I’m sorry that Ms Jenner hasn’t been able to finish reading the statement,’ he said. ‘As you can understand, this is a very distressing time for her. I’ll read the rest of it myself, if you’ll bear with me.’

Frustration crackled in his voice. DCI Fraser stood up and whispered something to him. DI Clemo looked down at the script before continuing, and when he spoke again he sounded calmer, though still tense and tightly controlled. Sitting beside him, I still felt powerful, pleased that I’d said my piece. The wound on my forehead began to itch and I scratched it while I listened to him finish reading the script:

‘This is a message for whoever might be holding Ben. I would like to reiterate that this is an unusual situation for all of us, and you might not know what to do next. Our suggestion is that you speak to someone, tell someone you trust, it might be a friend or a family member, or, as we’ve said, a solicitor, and ask them to help you get Ben back home safely. Ben’s safety is a priority for all of us. He needs his family. Thank you.’

Noise erupted.

‘We’ll do a couple of questions,’ Clemo shouted, ‘but one at a time. Hands up.’

He picked a man near the back. ‘Can you explain why no description of what Benedict was wearing when he was abducted has been issued?’

‘No, I’m afraid I can’t give you any information about that at this time.’

Clemo pointed to a woman who sat in the front row.

‘I’d like to ask Ms Jenner a question,’ she said.

‘I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.’

‘It’s OK,’ I said, foolish me. I leaned forward so that I could hear her.

Her voice rang out, direct and clear. ‘Why are you smiling, how did you injure your head, and how did it happen that Ben was separated from you in the woods?’

And that was what it took, to make me realise what I’d done and how stupid I’d been. My euphoria disappeared. It was a fizzled out firework, a limp balloon.

I’d smiled because I’d felt triumphant. I’d felt triumphant because I’d taken the initiative, reached out to my son, spoken to the abductor as they should be spoken to, without mercy.

Now I saw how stupid I had been. If my euphoria and my misguided sense of conviction had been a long stretch of golden beach that I’d basked on momentarily, then reality was the turning tide that was going to swamp it, an unstoppable mass of cold, black water lapping around rocks, shifting shingle and rising until it engulfed me.

I pushed myself back into my chair until the edges of it dug into my shoulder bones.

‘Don’t answer that,’ Clemo snapped at me, and then Fraser was on her feet and she had to shout to be heard: ‘This press conference is over. We’ll update you again this afternoon.’

The journalist had one more thing to say: ‘Rachel! Did you know you’ve got blood on your hands?’

Her voice drifted up above the other sounds and activity in the room, as if it were a wayward feather, caught on a breeze. It captured everyone’s attention. All eyes were on me.

I looked at my hands and there was blood on one of them, greasy red smears like ink, revealing the contours of my fingerprints on my thumb and first two fingers. With my clean hand I touched the gash on my forehead. It felt damp. I’d made it bleed when I scratched it.

‘Get me out of here,’ I said to Zhang. I said it under my breath, but I forgot that the microphones were on and my voice rang out, loud and urgent.

They got me out quickly. Even so, the noise in the room swelled again in a swift crescendo, and by the time I’d travelled the few paces to the door they were all shouting, a chorus of ‘Rachel, Rachel, just one more thing, Rachel,’ and they’d got to their feet and were straining towards me.

Zhang propelled me out through the doors. They swung shut behind us and we stood for a moment in the corridor. I could hear Fraser shouting to try to restore order. I sank to the floor.

‘Not here,’ said Zhang. She gripped my arm by my elbow, pulled me up.

‘I feel sick,’ I said.

The urge to vomit was overpowering, faintness was making my head lurch and spin.

‘This way,’ she said.

She swept me down the corridor and more or less shoved me through the doors of a ladies’ toilet. I burst into a cubicle and hunched over the bowl, throwing up the liquids I’d had that morning and then nothing but bile.

The retching was painful, convulsive and it took long minutes to subside.

‘Are you OK?’ It was Nicky. She crouched behind me, and I felt her hand on my back, rubbing between my shoulders. I couldn’t reply. The smell of my vomit was sharp and unpleasant. It made me feel ashamed. I leaned against the cubicle partition.

Nicky extracted a clean tissue from her bag, which she passed to me. She said, ‘Oh Rachel.’

‘I’ve been so stupid.’

I dabbed the tissue at the edges of my mouth. She handed me another and I spat on it and tried to rub the blood from my fingers.

‘You should have stuck to the script.’

She reached over me and flushed the toilet.

‘What do we do now?’ she asked Zhang, who was watching us.

‘We wait, somewhere more comfortable. When you’re ready.’

‘Wait for what?’ I asked.

‘Honestly,’ Zhang replied, ‘at this point, I have no idea.’

JIM

Fraser was furious after the press conference. I went to her office. She didn’t invite me to sit. Her eyebrows were so far up her face they disappeared into her hairline. Disbelief and disappointment fought to dominate her expression.

‘Am I right in thinking that Avon and Somerset Constabulary pay you a salary, Jim? And that’s not a rhetorical question.’

‘Yes, boss, they do.’

‘Then I need to see some evidence that you’re earning it! Not pissing it away! What the hell happened in there?’

‘I’m sorry, boss. Rachel Jenner went totally off message. I didn’t see it coming. I tried to…⁠’

‘Did you prepare her properly?’

‘I thought I did. We went through the script and she seemed happy with it.’

‘Seemed? Or was?’

‘I asked her if she was happy with it, she said yes. I thought she’d cope fine. I didn’t have a crystal ball, boss.’

‘You’re not going to have any fucking balls if you carry on like this. I’ll chop them off personally and use them as Christmas decorations for the girls’ lavvy. Rachel Jenner challenged the abductor. It’s the most dangerous thing she could have done. Even the desk sergeant could have told you that. The fucking street cleaner I drove past on my way in this morning could have told you that! I am not prepared to have a dead child on my hands because you’re gambling on the mother’s state of mind. If you send somebody into a press conference you need to know they’re prepared, not send them in on a wing and prayer.’

She was pushing the end of her pen towards me in little stabbing motions.

‘I’m sorry, boss.’

‘This case has the potential to turn into a big hairy beast if we don’t find the bastard who’s got Ben Finch quickly, and I don’t like beasties, Jim. Start using your head.’

‘I will.’

It was a proper dressing down. It was the worst start to the case I could have imagined. I braced myself for more, but she was finished.

‘Sit down for God’s sake,’ she said, and then, ‘Are we looking at a guilty mother?’

‘It’s possible. An outburst like that could be masking some kind of intense emotion. It could be guilt.’

‘Or grief? Or fear?’

‘It could be any of those things.’

Fraser’s pen was tapping again, this time on the desk. ‘We need to watch her carefully. Make sure Emma knows. Guilty of something or not, Mother’s a loose cannon. How did Dad react?’

‘He was angry.’

I’d had to restrain John Finch outside the press conference. He’d shouted in the corridor, blaming me, blaming Rachel, sobbing again, afraid that Rachel’s threats could have done Ben more harm than good. He was right to fear that. It’s what we were all thinking.

‘Do we think he’s genuine?’

‘I think he is. His wife’s confirmed his alibi. They were both at home together on Sunday afternoon.’

‘It’s a soft alibi.’

Fraser was right. We all knew how often spouses or parents offered alibis to keep their families out of trouble, motivated by love, or by fear, or both.

‘OK, let’s crack on. Damage limitation with the press, I’ll see to that, and for you the priority is interviews. I want information. Somebody saw something. Tell Emma to get Mother home.’

‘Should I interview Rachel Jenner again?’

‘No. Just warn her off speaking to the press. There’s going to be a reaction to this, I don’t think I need to spell that out. When you’ve done that I want you to get over to Benedict’s school. We need to show that we’re being supportive to the school, and the community. You can interview his teacher while you’re there, see if she’s noticed anything different about Ben lately.’

‘Yes, boss.’

The assignment felt like a punishment for letting the press conference get out of hand, and it probably was. A DC should be doing it, and both of us knew that.

‘I’ll get down there straight away.’

She softened slightly. ‘I would ask a DC to do it but the Chief’s keen that someone with rank is seen to be there.’

If that was supposed to feel like a comfort, then it was a very small one.

RACHEL

What happened next was that the attitude of the police towards me tightened, or perhaps I should say sharpened. It was clear as day to me, even though on the surface they still showed appropriate concern.

I first realised it when DI Clemo came to see me after the conference and could barely contain his irritation.

Zhang had brought me yet another cup of tea that I couldn’t drink, and sat my sister and me in a boxy interview room until my nausea had subsided to a manageable level and I felt ready to travel home.

When Clemo appeared his eyes were burning. He remained standing, his bulk dominating the space.

‘Rachel,’ he said, ‘you do understand that things didn’t run entirely to plan at the press conference?’

He was handling me. I tried to say something, to justify what had happened, but he held up a hand, even though he’d asked me a question.

‘Let me finish if you will,’ he said. ‘Our primary concern now is that there may be some kind of backlash against you. We suggest that you keep a very low profile around the press, as low as possible.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Don’t talk to them. It’s very simple.’

‘It’s for your own protection,’ said Zhang, ‘and Ben’s.’

‘What do you mean by backlash?’ Nicky wanted to know.

‘Precisely that. This is a high-profile case. The press conference was, unfortunately, sensational, and for all the wrong reasons. The public want to find Ben as much as we do, but unlike us they might not be looking for evidence before making accusations. Do I make myself clear?’

‘I understand,’ said Nicky. ‘They’re going to say that Rachel did it.’

‘They’re already saying it.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘Go home, shut the doors, pull the curtains, don’t speak to any journalists. DC Zhang will drive you back.’

‘What about Ben?’ I said.

‘We’re going to continue to do everything we can to find him and we’ll keep you posted on our progress.’ It was a phrase that was as bland and meaningless as a corporate slogan. If I’d ever had a connection with him, I felt as if it was lost now.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.

At home, Nicky and Laura and I watched in silence as the footage from the conference played on national TV.

I’d been filmed in close-up. I looked as if I’d crawled out of a primitive encampment after a long siege. The injury on my head was prominent; it drew the eye like a disfigurement, and livid red spots on my pale cheeks made me look feverish, and deranged. My eyes sagged with grief and exhaustion, and roved around the room, restless and jumpy. Every flaw and muscle twitch and emotion was visible on my face, and the moment when I addressed Ben’s abductor was the worst. There wasn’t a trace of dignity or vulnerability, or love for my son. I simply projected a raw, ugly rage that looked heinous, and unnatural.

And yes, the blood on my hands was visible.

When I finally disintegrated, and was hustled from the room where the conference was being held, I looked like somebody fleeing a crime.

I don’t know why I’m describing all this to you, because unless you’ve been living in Timbuktu you’ve probably seen it. In fact even if you had been living there you’d have been able to look it up online.

The footage went viral. Of course it did. I understand these things now.

My sister and Laura reacted in ways that summed up what was to be the response of the whole country, Nicky representing the minority view.

Laura: ‘Everybody’s going to blame you. They’re going to say you did it. You look guilty.’

Nicky: ‘No they won’t, they can see how much you love him, how brave you are.’

Peter Armstrong came round later on. I hadn’t spoken to him since he’d taken Skittle away from the woods to get treatment, but he’d phoned regularly and Nicky had kept him updated. He was coming over to bring the dog home. He was sanguine about the reaction to the press conference.

‘It’ll blow over,’ he said.

He was a slender man with a stomach that had been concave since his divorce. He had dark hair that circled a significant bald patch, and stubble. He wore jeans, a loose sweater and trendy trainers that looked too young for him. He worked as a web designer, mostly from home, and I’d always thought he needed to get out more.

‘And anyway, it’s only ever a minority of people who overreact to these things. As soon as they find Ben, everybody will forget. Don’t dwell on it. Keep faith, Rachel. Your friends will still be there for you.’

We were kneeling around the dog basket, petting Skittle. The dog’s hind leg was in a pristine cast, which dragged behind him when he tried to walk. Now he was lying down, his tail managing a drowsy thump or two, but no more. He was wondering where Ben was. I was wondering what he’d seen.

‘The police spoke to the vet,’ Peter said. ‘They asked if Skittle’s injury could tell them anything about how he got hurt.’

‘And?’ said Nicky.

I could tell she liked Peter. He was the opposite of her husband in looks. Simon Forbes was twice the size of Peter. He had the unruly dark hair that their girls had inherited, albeit a tad salt-and-peppery around the edges by now, and dressed in corduroys, well-worn brogues and pressed shirts in country checks under old-fashioned blazers. However, aside from this difference, the two men did share a gentle, sensible quality that appealed to my sister.

‘The vet said that the leg looked as if it was broken with one clean blow, but that could have happened in different ways. It could have been a fall, or it could have been somebody striking him. No way to tell which.’

For a second or two there was silence in the room, an emptiness, which nobody wanted to fill with words, because we were all thinking about what that might mean for Ben, and how bad that could be.

‘How’s Finn?’ I asked Peter.

‘Finn’s upset. He can’t wait to have his buddy back.’ He struggled to keep himself composed. ‘But he’s OK. He’s OK I think.’ He didn’t look sure. ‘School are working hard to handle things.’

I hadn’t thought of that yet, of how Ben’s disappearance would affect the other children.

‘What are they doing?’ Nicky put some tea down in front of Peter.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Well, they’re not ignoring it, the Head has spoken to the children about it, I know that much.’

‘What’s he like?’ Nicky wanted to know.

‘He’s new.’

‘People say he’s a drip,’ I said. I hadn’t met him myself, but that was the consensus in the playground, swiftly delivered by parental posses, after the man had been in the job for less than two months.

‘Well, I wouldn’t go quite that far,’ said Peter.

Peter was a smoother-over of problems, an appeaser. ‘I think to be fair he’s been lying low, getting to know the role, and the staff.’

This was a polite way of saying that nobody had seen him since he started because he hid in his office most of the time, and that he hadn’t yet begun to tackle any of the school’s most obvious and urgent issues.

‘He’s very experienced, so we’re hoping he’ll be good for the school in the long run.’ Peter was also an optimist.

‘Miss May?’ I asked. She was Ben’s teacher, Finn’s too.

‘I think she’s been good.’ Peter sounded surprised. He wasn’t a fan of Miss May. I thought it was because she intimidated him, and maybe because he fancied her just a bit. He’d never admit to it, but I’d seen Peter blush when they talked in the playground. She was young and pretty and had a high attendance amongst fathers at parents’ evening.

I liked her on the whole, which was good, because this was the second year in a row that she’d been teaching Ben. There were certainly worse teachers Ben could have got: dishevelled and angry Mr Talbot, for example, who never marked any work and shouted. Or sociopathic Mrs Astor, who hated children pretending to be animals and was frequently off sick with stress.

Ben had been shy of Miss May at first, but she’d swiftly won him and the other pupils over by demonstrating that she could do a backflip in front of the class, and then cemented their relationship by helping him after John and I separated.

Ben had melted down after John moved out. He’d become tearful and emotional and sometimes angry. It was so out of character, that, very reluctantly, and against all my instincts to be private, I’d had to go into school and tell Miss May what had happened, and ask her to help us pick up the pieces. She’d done that in spades, offering Ben copious amounts of support, and I had to credit her for helping us rebuild our lives since Christmas.

‘From what I can gather from Finn, she’s been talking to the children about it, but not letting them dwell on it,’ Peter said. ‘She seems to be keeping them busy. She was in the playground yesterday after school, talking to parents, as was the Head, which people were pleased about. Most of the staff were actually. It’s beyond the call of duty I’d say.’

Peter was prone to using military metaphors in his speech. It was one of the things that had put me off accepting his offer of a date when he’d tentatively asked me out after my split from John became public knowledge. It was at odds with his creative-type persona, as if he’d somehow manufactured that personality type for himself, and not arrived there naturally.

‘I’m not sure about that,’ said Nicky. ‘I’d say it’s exactly what they should be doing.’

‘What are they telling the children?’ I asked. ‘About Ben?’

‘They’re telling them that he went missing in the woods, that’s the phrase they’re using, “went missing”, and that everybody is looking for him.’ Peter took a noisy sip of tea. ‘Finn’s been having nightmares since Sunday, because of being there in the woods with us I think.’

The thought of Finn’s concern and the memory of his anxious face in the car park made me feel Ben’s absence more vividly than ever. I thought of Baggy Bear upstairs, on Ben’s bed, and his nunny. I thought of Ben without either of his favourite objects, without me, without comfort, somewhere out there, going through something that none of us could imagine.

I crumpled.

‘Oh I’m sorry,’ said Peter. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve put my foot in it. That’s the last thing I meant to do.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I should go.’

Nicky showed him out, said all the things that I couldn’t, like ‘thank you’ and ‘we’ll let you know if we hear anything’, and ‘thank you again’.

I found Laura in the front room. She was on the sofa, hunched over her tablet.

‘I think this has the potential to go wrong for you,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s all over the net. Facebook, Twitter, comments on news websites, everywhere.’

‘What is?’

‘I was right. They’re saying you’ve done something to Ben.’

JIM

Ben Finch’s primary school reminded me of my own: small neighbourhood school, hotchpotch of portable classrooms clustered around a Victorian building on a cramped site.

Fraser told me to take DC Woodley to the school with me, which was annoying in one way because he had a tendency to behave as though he had L-plates stuck on his back, even though he’d been in CID for over a year. On the other hand, if anyone was going to witness my humiliation at being demoted, however temporarily, to the role of school liaison officer, I suppose he was a good choice because he was too weedy to gloat. ‘No gumption’ my dad would have said about him, and probably worse.

The school secretary fussed around us, boiling the kettle, and looking disappointed when we didn’t want tea or coffee. She wanted to talk. It’s not uncommon. When something traumatic has happened, everyone connected to it has his or her own version of the story to tell. It’s why the press find it so damn easy to fill columns; almost everybody wants to get their few minutes of fame.

The secretary told us she’d known something was wrong when Rachel Jenner hadn’t returned her calls on Monday morning, because it was so unlike her. They automatically called parents, she said, when a child didn’t turn up and there’d been no word from them. She clutched a mug that read, ‘Don’t talk to me until this is empty!’ Fixed to the side of her computer monitor there was a photograph of Ayers Rock under a pink and orange sunset, and a Bible quote, which claimed that faith moved mountains. Both of them irritated me.

‘How often is Ben Finch absent from school?’ I asked her.

‘Hardly ever! He’s a lovely boy, ever so polite, ever so good. I couldn’t tell you what his schoolwork is like, mind you, you’d have to ask Miss May or the Head about that, but I can tell you he’s a lovely boy. He brings the register in to me in the mornings and he always has a smile. I say to him, “Benedict Finch, you’ll go far with those super manners.”’

She got teary, removing her glasses to wipe her eyes.

‘Sorry,’ she said and followed that with a little outtake of air, a puff of distress that dispersed into the room. ‘You will find him, won’t you, Inspector?’

‘We’ll do our best,’ I said.

The headmaster’s office was cramped. We sat around his desk on rigid moulded plastic chairs that didn’t fit my body shape in any way.

‘I’m sorry, Detective Inspector,’ he said, ‘I was in the middle of a special assembly when you arrived and I didn’t want to alarm the children by running off. They’re rattled enough already. Damien Allen, by the way.’

He had a sleepy quality about him, heavily lidded eyes, a jowly face under hair that was in need of a cut, and a ponderous voice that would have had me dozing off before the end of any assembly. I shook his extended hand and found his grip loose.

‘I’m new to this job,’ he added. ‘It’s not ideal.’

I took that to mean the situation, not the job.

Ben’s teacher shook hands more earnestly; she had a bit of a pincer grip and she was one of those people who shake for longer than you’ve anticipated. It’s an anxiety thing. They don’t want to let go of you in case you disappear just when they need you.

Like the Head, she was holding herself together quite well, but there were signs of distress in the way she clasped her hands tightly together and she looked on the verge of tears. She was a good-looking woman too: nicely dressed, neat figure as if she went to the gym a lot, soft fair hair down to her shoulders, nice eyes.

They told us that for the past forty-eight hours they’d had their hands full, dealing with children who were understandably frightened and confused about what had happened to Ben, and they’d also been inundated with phone calls and emails from parents who wanted information and reassurance, and were questioning the school’s security procedures.

‘It’s a level of panic,’ the Head said tiredly, ‘which suggests that there’s a precedent for the disappearance of one child to lead to a rash of kidnappings.’

I did what I was supposed to do. I promised we’d keep them updated and that we’d send an officer to attend a meeting for parents. We spoke about counselling for the children, but I explained the police view was that it was a bit too soon, that it was something to discuss down the line, depending on the outcome of the case.

‘We’ll need a list of staff at school,’ I told the Head. ‘In order of those who have the most direct contact with Ben.’

‘We thought you might,’ he said, ‘so we’ve started to draw one up, and we’ll send that over to you as soon as it’s complete.’

‘We’ll need that as soon as possible.’

‘I appreciate that, Inspector, and I’ll prioritise it of course. However, there are a large number of people involved with school and we want to make sure we include anybody who Ben might have crossed paths with.’

‘It’s not just teaching staff,’ said Miss May. ‘There are the teaching assistants, support staff, catering assistants…⁠’

‘Domestic staff, site maintenance, parents who help out with clubs…⁠’ the Head went on.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Comprehensive is good, but why don’t you send me over what you’ve got so far, so we can make a start and then you can forward any other names as you think of them.’

‘Of course,’ said the Head. ‘Of course. I’ll ask Anthea to do that.’

He waved a chubby hand at the glass panel set into his office door. Behind it, the secretary hastily turned away and sat down at her desk, pushing her glasses self-consciously up her nose and trying to look busy. I wondered how many of his conversations she eavesdropped on.

I felt a headache coming on. Dealing with the school was going to be a minefield. We were going to have to work all the hours God gave just to get through background checks on everyone who might have had contact with Ben.

‘In advance of the list, is there anyone working at school who’s given you cause for concern lately, in terms of their behaviour or in any other way?’ I asked him.

He shook his head. The frown on his forehead seemed to deepen by the minute.

‘Obviously I’ve been racking my brain since this happened,’ he said. ‘But I should say that I am stressing to parents that it didn’t happen in or near school property. I think that’s worth bearing in mind, Inspector, when you’re looking for suspects.’

‘As is the fact that this place is the single biggest opportunity for Ben Finch to come into contact with a wide range of adults.’

‘All of whom are CRB checked.’

‘There’s no need to be defensive, Mr Allen. You know as well as I do that the CRB check is only a reliable check of previous convictions, not of possible impulses or intentions.’

‘I’m simply keen that the school doesn’t become a particular focus of the investigation.’

That wasn’t worth responding to, it was the kind of jobsworth comment that made me want to slap a pair of handcuffs on him. I swallowed my annoyance, because I wanted to press him some more on Ben’s possible contacts.

‘Is there any adult at school who you feel that Ben might have formed an attachment to?’

‘Miss May?’ asked the Head. ‘You’ll know best.’

‘Well, there’s me,’ she said. The palm of her hand was on her chest, rising and falling with her breathing. ‘I’ve been his teacher for just over a year now, I had him last year too; and I work with a teaching assistant called Lucas Grantham who comes in part-time. He’s new this year. The children like him; Ben likes him. We’re the ones with the most contact with him.’

‘We’ll definitely need to speak to Mr Grantham,’ I said.

‘He’s here today if you’d like to meet him.’

‘That would be useful. Anybody else?’

She shook her head.

‘Nobody springs to mind, but there are lots of other people Ben comes into contact with on a daily basis.’

‘And, can I ask, have you noticed anything unusual about Ben’s behaviour lately?’

‘No. If anything I’d say he’s been having a good year. Last year was much harder for him, after his parents split up.’

‘In what way?’

‘He didn’t know how to react to the separation. We talked about it sometimes at school. He’s not the only one in my class going through it of course, but it’s a sad and confusing situation for any child and I think parents sometimes don’t understand how hard the children take it.’

‘It often falls to school to deal with the emotional fallout in these situations,’ said the Head.

‘Do you think Ben was more affected than you might expect?’

‘I couldn’t say,’ said the Head. ‘I’d be lying if I said I knew him well because I’ve only been here a few weeks, as I said.’

I wasn’t directing the question at him, but I let it go. The man had an ego. Miss May answered.

‘No,’ she said. ‘He was affected quite badly, but he’s a very sensitive boy so that’s what you might expect if you knew him.’

The Head cleared his throat. ‘There’s one thing on file we thought we should mention. Last spring, when Ben was in Year Four, he had a fall as he arrived in the playground with his mother. It was before school. He came off his scooter and landed badly on his arm. Do you want to tell it from there, Miss May, as you were there?’

‘I wasn’t actually there when he fell. One of the other teachers saw it happen,’ she said. ‘Apparently Ms Jenner helped Ben up and put him back on his feet and brushed him off. He was crying a bit, because his arm hurt, but she was talking to him and he did calm down.’

She paused and looked anxiously at the Head.

‘And?’ I said.

He took over. ‘And the file says that Ms Jenner left Benedict at school even though he was complaining of pain in his arm. It turned out that it was fractured.’

‘So this was when he was in your class?’ I asked Miss May.

She nodded. ‘I’ve got to say I took one look at him when I was doing registration and I could see there was something very wrong. He was white as a sheet. As soon as he said what had happened I called an ambulance immediately.’

‘Was he in obvious distress at that point, or when his mother left him?’

‘Not obvious distress; he was being very brave.’

‘Were there signs that the arm was fractured?’

‘It was a buckle fracture so there were no snapped bones, or swelling, and he could move his hand. His mother did check all that, but she didn’t notice how much pain he was in.’

‘Did Ms Jenner return when you realised he needed treatment?’

‘Yes, of course, and she went with him to the hospital.’

‘So it’s possible she didn’t realise how badly he was hurt?’

‘No. She didn’t realise.’ Something in her expression wasn’t happy.

‘Do you think she should have realised?’

‘I do. I really do. And I suppose what’s always on my mind is: why did Ben feel he had to be so stoical in front of her? He was only seven years old. And why didn’t his mother get him properly checked up right away? Why didn’t she see what I saw?’

‘We had a similar incident in my old school,’ said the Head. ‘It’s not uncommon for minor fractures to go unnoticed.’

‘I do know that,’ said Miss May, ‘it’s just that she always looked so depressed at the time, as if she couldn’t cope. This was after the separation. I wondered if it was all getting a bit much for her. Ben always seemed so worried about upsetting her.’

‘Were there any other signs?’ I asked.

Miss May took a deep breath. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Hand on heart, no there weren’t.’

‘Says here she forgot to collect him one day.’ The Head held up a piece of paper from Ben’s file.

‘Oh! Yes she did. I’d forgotten that,’ Miss May said. ‘Yes, that’s true. It was the last day of the spring term, last year, and the children were supposed to be collected at midday instead of at the usual time, so it was understandable.’

‘Was she commonly forgetful?’

‘No, no, it happened just the once, but Ben was very upset. He was inconsolable, actually. It was the last thing he needed at the time. He’d only just moved out of their family home into the new house with just his mum. He was feeling very insecure about the new arrangements, and it was a time when it was important for him to feel wanted, to know that he was their priority.’

‘So, just to confirm, it wasn’t typical of Ben’s mother to forget him?’

‘No. It wasn’t typical, but when it happened I suppose I did think it might be a symptom of how difficult things might be at home.’

‘So this was last year, and have things improved since then?’ I asked. ‘Any more incidents?’

‘No. Nothing else. He’s been better generally this year. I think he’s settled in the new house with his mum now and things are hopefully a teensy bit calmer.’ Her inflection at the end of this sentence made it sound like a question.

I looked at the Head. ‘What’s your view?’

‘Well I defer to Miss May on this, because, as I said, I don’t know Ben very well yet, and I haven’t met his mother at all so I can’t comment on her. From what I’m hearing I suspect it’s been a hard time for Ben and his mum, but also fantastic continuity for him that he’s had Miss May for two years running.’

She smiled at him.

‘Well, thank you both,’ I said, ‘and if you think of anything else we should know then please get in contact.’ I got up, grateful to be out of the chair.

‘We shall,’ the Head said. He looked even more weary as he stood and, in spite of his attitude earlier, I felt sorry for both of them, having to go back out of this room and deal with the confusion and fear of a school full of traumatised children. He smoothed his tie against his shirt and treated me to the same loose handshake as before.

‘Could we have a quick word with Ben’s teaching assistant before we leave?’ I asked. ‘Mr…⁠?’

‘Lucas Grantham,’ said the Head. ‘Miss May, could you show the officers where to find him?’

She walked with us down the corridor. On either side, the walls were plastered with work that the children had done.

‘Lucas is in the classroom,’ she said. ‘Right here.’

Before I could ask her to fetch him discreetly, she pushed open the door. A class of kids was working at low tables, in groups of four, sitting in those miniature chairs that you forget you ever fitted into. A young man was overseeing them from the front of the room. He looked early twenties at a guess. He had thick tufty ginger hair, and his face was pretty much one big freckle with a bit of white skin peeking through here and there. He was perched on the desk.

The children’s eyes turned to us and they started to get to their feet. Chairs scraped and papers fell off tables as they stood.

‘This is Mr Clemo and Mr Woodley,’ said Miss May. She whispered to me, ‘I’m not going to tell them you’re policemen.’ Then she addressed them again: ‘What do we say, children?’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Clemo, good afternoon, Mr Woodley,’ they chanted.

‘Well done, class,’ said Miss May, and she favoured them with a big smile. ‘Sit down and carry on.’

They sat down with a collective bump, duty done. The young man came to the door. ‘This is Lucas,’ said Miss May. ‘Or Mr Grantham, as the children call him. He’s our teaching assistant for Oak Class.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ he said. No handshake, instead he held his hands in front of him, fingers interlocked, and in motion, as if he were working his way along a set of prayer beads. ‘It’s just awful, I can’t believe it.’ He had freckles on the back of his hands too.

‘We’ll need to have a word with you at some point very soon,’ I said.

‘Right! Of course, whenever,’ he said. Close up, he looked tired and slack-jawed. He had a weak chin and he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days.

‘Have you noticed anything different from usual about Benedict Finch’s behaviour lately?’ I asked him. I kept my voice down so the kids didn’t hear me.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all.’

Behind him a space at one of the tables caught my eye, an empty chair where presumably Ben Finch should have been sitting, surrounded by his schoolmates, having an ordinary day.

‘Nothing? Are you sure?’ I said. He was starting to irritate me.

‘No,’ he said. He shook his head slowly, his lips tucked in between his teeth. I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.

‘We have to get going,’ I said. ‘Though we’ll need to interview you as soon as possible. Somebody will be in touch to arrange that.’

The children were starting to fidget and talk. Miss May hushed them gently.

‘Whenever you like,’ said Lucas Grantham. ‘Of course. If it’ll help.’

In the car, Woodley said, ‘It’s a bloody nightmare how many people could have had contact with him.’

‘I know, and we’re going to need background and alibis on every single one of them. Plus we need to check out the incident with the broken arm with the hospital.’

‘Do you think there’s anything in it?’

‘No, because it seems completely clear that Rachel Jenner didn’t inflict the injury on him. It was an accident. But we’ll check it out anyway and I think we should take the possibility that she was depressed seriously. We’ll pass that on to Fraser and Zhang straight away.’

‘What did you think of the teaching assistant?’

‘Of interest,’ I said. ‘Definitely.’

‘Yeah, I thought he was a bit shifty.’

Woodley sat in silence for a few moments, then he said, ‘Strange isn’t it? Being back at school?’

The car was poised at the school entrance, indicator light ticking.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘You forget how small you were once. Don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so. When did you leave primary school then? Last week? Short memory you’ve got. Is that why they kicked you out? Couldn’t remember your times tables?’

It was a sport in the office, ribbing Woodley because he looked young, or because he had a nose you could ski off.

‘Ha ha, boss,’ he said, but he shut up then and I was glad because I was actually thinking about how vivid my memories of being primary school age were, and it was making me scared for Benedict Finch, because of all the bad things that can be done to a child that age, so very easily.

RACHEL

Laura and Nicky wouldn’t let me go online. They said I shouldn’t read the stuff people were saying, that it would upset me. They were united in this. I was still in denial, still sure that people wouldn’t actually, really accuse me. Even then, in those first hours after the press conference, I was naïve enough to retain a delicate mesh of middle-class confidence around me. I’m a good citizen, I thought. People will know that. I used to be married to a doctor.

I should have had more sense though, because outside the house the journalists were gathering in greater numbers than before, drawn there since the press conference.

Inside, we’d had to take the phone off the hook, and seal the letter flap with masking tape. I stayed in the back of the house, as far away from them as possible.

Nicky went out for supplies and bustled back into the house within minutes, holding bags from the local corner shop. ‘I couldn’t get any further,’ she said. ‘They followed me. And they’ve dropped rubbish everywhere.’

She found a black bin liner under my sink and took it back out to the front of the house, where, in tones strident enough for me to hear, she ordered the journalists to clear up what they’d dropped in the street and in my postage-stamp sized front garden.

Back inside, still bristling, she started to unpack a selection of canned food. ‘They’re lovely in the shop,’ she said, ‘aren’t they? They locked the door so I could shop without the journalists and then they gave me this to give to you.’

It was an envelope. On the front was handwritten ‘To Benedict and his Mother’.

‘They said they can order in anything you want,’ Nicky went on, shoving the cans into cupboards. ‘Or if we can’t get to the supermarket they said they can get stuff for us that we can pick up, which might be nice because we can’t live off this.’ She held up a loaf of white sliced bread.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a small card. An elegant pair of hands was drawn on the front, with tapered fingers and palms together, in prayer. Beaded bracelets hung around the wrists.

‘What religion are they?’ Nicky asked, looking over my shoulder.

‘Hindu,’ I said. ‘I think.’

Inside the card was a handwritten message, in careful, formal lettering. ‘We have shed tears for you and we wish you and Benedict every strength and we pray that he will be home soon. Ravi and Aasha and family.’

‘I barely even know them,’ I said. I thought of my frequent visits to the shop, the small talk with the owners, a lovely couple, but strangers really, and I felt deeply moved by the card.

‘You’ve had other messages,’ Nicky said. ‘I just wasn’t sure you were up to them.’

‘Show me.’

Nicky had commandeered my mobile phone, in order to field calls and messages from friends, and other families that we knew well and not so well.

They were mostly texts from people I knew, an outpouring of reaction to the story appearing on the news. The texts ranged from the predictable:

Devastated to hear about Ben please let us know if there’s anything we can do. Clarke Family xxx

Can’t imagine what you’re going through. We’re thinking of you and Ben. Sacha x

To the insultingly practical:

Don’t worry about returning Jack’s coat with what’s happening we understand completely. Thinking of you. Love Juliet xx

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I said. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

Nicky read it. ‘It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. They’re trying to be nice.’

‘As if I care about a stupid coat.’

‘They don’t expect you to. Don’t think the worst. It’s supposed to be a nice message.’

There were emails too, but I tired of reading them. The messages made me feel either sad or angry or resentful and I was feeling all of those things enough already. Needling at me, too, were the messages that weren’t there, from friends who I would have expected to support us. ‘Have there been voicemails?’ I asked Nicky. ‘Don’t you think people should leave a proper message?’

‘There’ve been one or two,’ she said. ‘I wrote them down. People probably don’t want to tie up the phone line.’

I looked over the messages she’d carefully recorded. There were still at least two friends conspicuous by their absence from these lists. Were they being kind by not contacting me? Was that a thoughtful response? Or had they backed off now that I was tainted by misfortune, now that I was the person to whom the worst had happened, the one at the sharp end of the statistical wedge, where nobody else wants to be.

I sat there, the card in my hands, while Nicky trawled the web again, searching deeper and deeper for advice and information, for anything that might help us, as if it were a sort of addiction.

I had an impulse to phone John. I wanted to tell him I was sorry about the press conference, and that I was sorry I let Ben run ahead in the woods. I increasingly felt a desperate need for him to absolve me of the things I’d done wrong. It felt like the only way I could lessen my pain. But he didn’t answer his mobile, and Katrina answered their landline.

‘He’s not here,’ she said. ‘He’s out driving the streets, looking for Ben. He hasn’t been home since the press conference.’

‘You’ve seen it?’

‘Yes.’

I didn’t want her to say anything about it. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said quickly.

Laura went home. She had cats to feed. I marvelled at how the mundane activities that life demanded still needed to be done, even while the worst was happening.

I even felt resentful towards my body, towards its demands for sleep, for food, for drink, for bodily functions. I thought that life should stop until Ben was found. Clocks should no longer tick, oxygen should no longer be exchanged for carbon dioxide in our lungs, and our hearts should not pump. Only when he was back should normal service resume.

Anything else was an insult to him, to what he might be suffering.

Nicky continued to work, propelled by some kind of manic internal engine, as if an internet search might yield a vital clue, or trigger a revelation. Once she’d finished looking online, she began to design a flyer, and to come up with plans for distributing it.

I tired of being in her orbit, and I went upstairs, my fingers running along the dado rail. Just above it, visible against the white paint, were Ben’s finger marks. He always ran, never walked, whether he was going up or down the stairs. Ignoring my shouts to slow down, he would have one hand on the banister and one hand on the wall to steady himself, and I would hear rapid footfall. Usually I only noticed the marks made by his grubby fingers when they exasperated me, but now they seemed unbearably precious. I traced over them with my own fingers as I went up.

The house had been in a total state when we moved in. John, who’d viewed it because he was paying for some of it, advised me not to buy it. Horrible dark colours and tacky plastic cupboards had put off many people, but I could see that underneath the tat and the tack there were some pretty, original features and I’d been excited by their potential. I’d tackled Ben’s bedroom first. Ben and I had spent a brilliant day putting the first coat of paint over the horrible dark maroon colour left by the previous owners.

‘Go on,’ I’d said to Ben, ‘just slap the paint on.’

‘What, anywhere?’ he’d asked, hardly believing his luck, a wide smile dimpling his cheeks.

‘Anywhere,’ I’d said, and to prove my point I’d dipped my brush in the tub of pristine white undercoat and written ‘BEN’ in huge capital letters on the wall. He’d loved the forbidden thrill of painting all over the walls, and he’d quickly got into it. We’d drawn pictures, written silly words and had much fun until the room was covered in a patchy layer of undercoat.

It had felt good for both of us: we were taking possession of the house. The plan had backfired a bit because we never quite managed to smooth the wall out afterwards, and even now that there were two coats of pale blue covering the undercoat it was possible to make out raised areas where some of our pictures and words had been. Neither of us minded that though. In fact we liked it.

Remembering, I eased my body down into the dent in his mattress that had taken on my shape now, obliterating his, and I touched the wall, feeling for those raised areas of paint.

I tried to make myself focus, to think through what had happened in the woods, to recover every detail. I was desperate to discover, somewhere in my mind, something significant, but I remembered nothing new.

Then I thought about John, driving the streets, desperately searching for Ben, and I thought about Katrina, and I regretted every moment that I’d let Ben be with them over the past year, and not with me.

She hadn’t even wanted him in their home at first. That had been clear from what Ben had told me. ‘She doesn’t let me slide on the floor in the hall,’ he’d complained, and I’d been furious, imagining him tiptoeing through their perfect house, unable to relax in case he did something wrong. I recalled Ben’s reluctance to spend weekends with them after the break-up, especially at first, when things still felt raw, and unstable. I came bitterly to my usual conclusion that Katrina didn’t deserve Ben, and I didn’t deserve to have to go through her to get to John.

My thoughts circulated fruitlessly like this until finally sleep coshed me, knocked me into my unconscious, where I dreamed of being surrounded by looming trees and by foliage with sharp edges, and shadows and dark tunnels where you could get lost for ever.

In the small hours I woke up and reached for my phone. I opened the internet browser and Googled ‘News Benedict Finch’. When the results came up I only needed one or two clicks before a feeling of dread coursed icily through me.

JIM

Addendum to DI James Clemo’s report for Dr Francesca Manelli.

Transcript recorded by Dr Francesca Manelli.

DI James Clemo and Dr Francesca Manelli in attendance.

Notes to indicate observations on DI Clemo’s state of mind or behaviour, where his remarks alone do not convey this, are in italics.

FM: So not a good day on the case for you, your second day?

JC: No. It’s not what I would have wanted, but you pick yourself up, keep on going, try to put things right. By the end of the day we had lots to think about.

FM: I wonder if you feel that the press conference knocked your confidence?

JC: Because of what the mother did?

FM: Yes.

JC: No. It didn’t. I’d make that call again. Nobody could have predicted that she was going to do what she did. If I’m honest, I didn’t think it was fair for me to take the rap for it.

FM: Did you say that to DCI Fraser?

JC: No. I’m proud, I’m not suicidal. She was just venting anyway. That’s what she’s like so I didn’t take it too seriously.

FM: How was the case progressing overall?

JC: We had stuff going on. We all sat down together at about eight thirty that night. Fraser was still bitching and moaning about the press conference to start off with but she settled down because we had a few obvious leads so there was a feeling that we might be getting somewhere.

FM: What were the leads?

JC: We were still looking into the fantasy role-play folks. The majority had alibis, but one of them in particular was being difficult, refusing to answer questions, and that got Fraser’s goat. He didn’t have an alibi and she liked him for the abduction.

FM: How was he being difficult?

JC: He claimed that the only authority he would recognise was the Order of Knights who ruled his fantasy world, which basically meant that he refused to talk to us. Wouldn’t answer any questions. On a point of principle.

FM: Is that allowed?

JC: He can claim what he likes and we couldn’t make him talk to us. Fraser decided to interview him herself. She wanted Woodley and me to go with her the next day, pay him a visit at home and see if we couldn’t shake something out of him.

FM: And the paedophile? The one you were trying to trace?

JC: He was a definite concern. We still didn’t have a location for him, but the DC who was on the case reckoned his mum knew where he was and it was eating her up not telling us. She was going to pay her another visit. We had the psychologist working on possible profiles for abductors and other than that we were drawing up lists of people to interview, checking alibis and responding to all the calls that had come in after our appeals.

FM: Did you have a large response?

JC: Huge, almost overwhelming. Fraser had pulled together as big a team as she could but it was still going to be hard to follow up everything quickly. As a priority, we needed IDs on the cyclists Rachel Jenner mentioned seeing in the woods and the lone male walker, so we were focusing on those.

FM: What was the atmosphere like amongst the team?

JC: Totally adrenalised. Everyone wanted to get on with it, find the kid.

FM: Had there been a public reaction to the press conference?

JC: That was an issue. Even that first night there was already a massive online backlash against Rachel Jenner. People were saying, or insinuating, everything under the sun, online news sites included. We were dreading the headlines the next morning.

FM: What kind of things were they saying?

JC: The straplines were ‘Mother’s angry outburst’ that kind of thing. Not too bad yet but it was the comments that people were making that were worrying us. On Facebook hundreds of people were discussing the case and they weren’t holding back. They thought she was guilty.

FM: And what did you think?

JC: Couldn’t rule it out. She certainly had the opportunity to do something to Ben, and we hadn’t verified her story yet.

FM: What was your gut instinct?

JC: That she was volatile.

FM: Meaning?

JC: She could have done it.

FM: You weren’t convinced of her innocence after her display of grief at the press conference?

JC: Grief isn’t proof of innocence. If she’d done something to Ben she could still have been feeling distress.

FM: True.

JC: I felt she could have murdered him, or killed him by mistake, and hidden the body and made up the story about the woods. It’s a pretty unlikely scenario but by no means impossible. We asked the forensic psychologist to look at the footage from the conference and give us his thoughts about Rachel Jenner.

FM: So apart from the negative press, were you happy with the response to the press conference? Did any good come of it?

JC: We did get some positive response. Like I said we had a lot to manage but once we’d weeded out the nutters, we were hoping something would come of it, maybe a sighting, maybe people to add to the list we had to interview.

He’s got me interested. If truth be told, this case fascinated me at the time, as it did many people. I must have let this show, the fact that I’m finding what he’s telling me compelling, because he leans forward, asks me the question that’s really on his mind.

JC: How many sessions do you think it will take until you can sign me off?

I have to put my professional face firmly back in place.

FM: That’s impossible for me to say. All I can say is that you’re making good progress so far.

He sits back again, but he’s agitated. His right knee jiggles up and down.

FM: I’m interested in the work that the forensic psychologist was doing. Can you tell me more about that?

JC: He’d not submitted anything in writing at this point, but Fraser and I had both talked to him.

FM: And what were his thoughts?

JC: They were a mixed bag.

FM: Can you describe them to me?

JC: It’s not nice stuff.

FM: I’m interested. It’s not a million miles away from what I do.

JC: The main distinction that profilers make in child abduction cases is between family and non-family abduction.

FM: Is either one more likely?

JC: Statistically, a family abduction, because they’re usually the result of divorces or custody arrangements that have gone bad. You often read about kids who are kidnapped and taken abroad by a parent. Rarely, a family abduction involves a member of close family: an uncle, or a stepfather maybe, who harbours an unhealthy sexual interest in a child, but in those cases the victim is usually a girl.

FM: Presumably those cases are easier to solve.

JC: Absolutely. The non-family perpetrator is much more challenging for us. If a child is snatched right out of their lives, without trace, the pool of potential suspects can become vast. Obviously we look at everyone they know, but once you’ve ruled them out, it could be anyone. And time is always against you.

FM: It must leave the parents in a living hell.

JC: You wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

FM: No, you wouldn’t. There’s a term we use for it: ‘ambiguous grief’. It can be a life sentence. It’s a kind of unresolved grief. You might feel it if you have a child or another family member who is mentally impaired. You might mourn the person you think they could have been if things had turned out differently. That person is physically present but psychologically absent. Conversely, and this is what happens in cases of abduction, or more commonly in divorce, the child or the person is psychologically present but physically absent. And in the case of abduction the parents have the added uncertainty over whether the child is alive or dead.

JC: It’s what we wanted to avoid. We wanted to get that kid back safe and well. We were waiting to get written profiles from the psychologist, but he’d told Fraser he was veering towards a non-family abduction, because of the circumstances of the abduction.

FM: Why?

JC: Based on Ben’s age and gender it was likely to be a lone male abductor with a sexual motive, probably acting opportunistically.

FM: And how did he come to this conclusion?

JC: Past cases, the circumstances of Ben’s life and his disappearance. He advised us to look out for someone odd when we were interviewing and looking through statements.

FM: Odd? You surely didn’t need a profiler to tell you to look out for somebody odd?

JC: I don’t mean overtly odd. There are signs to look for. Often they are craving control, in sexual relationships perhaps, or just in their lives.

FM: Which presumably might have been a fit for your fantasy role-play suspect?

JC: That’s right.

Describing his work has given him an energy I haven’t seen before. I change the subject, hoping he’ll carry this momentum into talking about his personal life.

FM: And Emma?

JC: What about her?

FM: What were her thoughts?

JC: To be honest we hadn’t really had a chance to talk properly. She was getting on with the job though. Fraser was pleased with her.

FM: I’m very surprised you hadn’t talked. I understood that you were living together.

JC: It was hard once the case started. You don’t keep sociable hours. When you get home you’re so tired you just want to sleep. It was easier for us both to sleep at our own places some nights. And Emma could be hard to read sometimes, you know?

FM: What do you mean?

JC: I don’t know. You know how people sometimes get very quiet, go into themselves a bit when they’re focused on the job?

FM: Yes.

JC: She’s like that. So when she wanted to keep herself to herself I respected that. And, to be honest, we didn’t really have time for our relationship once the case started because it consumed us both. It’s the nature of it.

FM: Do you think Emma was prepared for that?

JC: Absolutely.

FM: You put a lot of responsibility on her, recommending her for the post.

JC: I’ve already told you, I had faith in her.

FM: Did you talk about that?

JC: I wasn’t going to patronise her. That would have been out of order. And she didn’t need me to.

His foot begins to tap a swift staccato on the floor, signalling that he knows it’s only minutes until the end of our session.

FM: Just one last thing before you go.

He raises an eyebrow enquiringly.

FM: Did you feel that you were able to keep your distance from the case? Personally?

JC: What do you mean?

FM: The age of Benedict Finch, the visit to his school. Occasionally when I read your report I get the feeling that he might have got under your skin a bit.

JC: I was professional.

FM: I’m not suggesting for a moment that you weren’t.

He stares at me.

JC: It’s not wrong to care.

FM: Was this the first case you worked on where a child was involved, or in danger?

JC: Yes.

FM: Was that hard?

JC: It was hard in that we had to find him. It was our responsibility to him. He’d done nothing wrong. He was just a kid. But that didn’t make any difference to anything I did.

FM: Do you think your response to the case could have been affected by the relatively recent death of your father?

JC: What?

FM: Sometimes when we lose a parent it makes us reflect on our childhoods. It’s not an uncommon response to parental bereavement. That might have made you more vulnerable to identifying with Benedict Finch, and what could be happening to him?

He doesn’t reply. He looks incredulous.

FM: DI Clemo?

JC: No. It didn’t. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I was doing my job. Isn’t this session supposed to be over by now?

Although there’s a clock in plain view on my desk, he glances at his watch. It’s obvious that he’s not going to engage with this today.